


Love from Ilvermorny

by MabtheWinterQueen



Series: Letters from Ilvermorny [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Genderqueer Character, Ilvermorny, LGBTQ Character of Color, Non-binary character, Post-Canon, Year One - 11 years old
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MabtheWinterQueen/pseuds/MabtheWinterQueen
Summary: Growing up oblivious to the Wizarding World makes you pretty skeptical, but there's no place like Ilvermorny to make you a believer.Rated for mild language only.





	1. Letters

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net (on a fritzing account) but it's been heavily edited. I changed a LOT. The protagonist's mom is a muggleborn and their dad is a half-blood. I think that makes them a half-blood. They were raised magic-less because their grandparents hoped they would be a squib, having shown no magical talent as a child. They are, as the title implies, not. Main protagonist is genderqueer.

The owl arrived at my window at exactly 9:21 on the Saturday of my eleventh birthday. Tied to its leg was a letter. Of course, I was a little freaked about the giant bird that flew through the glass (through it!), so I waved at it like a madperson, shrieking as it nestled itself in my frizzy brown hair and nuzzled my head. It dangled its leg down near my face, a letter tied there crudely. The owl hooted at me. I grabbed the letter (rather harshly, now that I think of it), and the bird left its perch on my precarious bun, setting on the table next to my bed. I glanced at the letter and began slowly opening it, struggling with the wax seal. I mean, who even uses wax seals anymore? Hello, eighteenth century calling – it wants its style back.

 

A final nip on the ear was the bird's parting gift, and I was glad to be rid of it, for I had more important things to worry about. The letter was addressed to me in a very specific way. It read:

 

_Jay Baker_

_The second house to the left_

_The first room down the hall_

______________

_______

 

Those last two blanks? Yeah, sorry, I’m not comfortable with strangers knowing where I live. But I assure you that the city, state, and zip code were there.

 

Though what was inside was stranger still.

 

_Dear Mx. Baker,_

_You have been accepted to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A full list of school supplies for you to pick up in New Diagon Alley will be available for you soon._

_Please send your reply with the owl by July 31st._

_Term starts August 18th._

_Sincerely,_

_Romilda Boot_

_Deputy Headmistress_

 

I wasn't sure what to make of the letter. My first thought was that it was a prank, until the owl came flying through the window again (closed, mind you, it was still closed) and deposited a letter into my hands. Inside was a list of books and other assorted sundries I would need if I were to attend this school.

 

"Grandma!" I called down the stairs. "Grandma, an owl gave me a letter!"

 

"Hush, James, not so loud!" she hissed as she climbed up, laundry in tow. "You wouldn't want to wake May!" May being my three-year-old little cousin, whom we were currently babysitting.

 

"You’re going to think I’ve gone nuts," I began, wringing my hands and reconsidering my life choices, “but an owl gave me a letter. It wants me to go to a school called Ivlermonry.”

 

“Ilvermorny,” she corrected me. “It’s pronounced ‘il-ver-moor-nee’.”

 

I stared. And stared. For a while, actually.

 

She let out a long breath. “Oh, dear. I’d always hoped they would never ask you to go. When they didn’t ask Berri –’

 

“Crazy Aunt Berri?” No love lost between myself and her, let me tell you. The woman nearly killed me when I was five. And she doesn’t like me very much. I think she wants me to be an extrovert, and trust me, social anxiety, asthma, and extrovert are words that do not belong in the same sentence, let alone the same paragraph.

 

"James Alexander Baker! Your aunt is not crazy!” Grandma snapped. “She is just a bit… extreme.” I said nothing, but she knew what I was thinking. “The Swing Incident was an accident, James.”

 

“My name is Jay,” I mumbled.

 

“You may want to sit down,” she ignored me, patting the couch. I sat warily. “Now. The matter of your invitation to Ilvermorny. Darling, Ilvermorny is a school for… different people.”

 

“So you think I’m crazy,” I asked incredulously.

 

“No!” she said quickly. “No. Of course not. Ilvermorny is a school for… talented… young people. Talented… in witchcraft. There. I said it.”

 

I blinked. I knew my grandma had some pretty strange beliefs, but this was a whole new level of weird.

 

Apparently, I was pretty obvious in my disbelief. She sighed.

 

"Now, I _know_ you don’t believe me, but Ilvermorny is a very real place with very real people. I attended there, and so did your father.”

 

“And my mom?”

 

“They met there, I believe. She was a Horned Serpent and he was a Pukwudgie. Oh, the stories I could tell you. Like the time when Mark…” she trailed off. “I guess I’d better let you hear about that one by word of mouth, but let me tell you, your father was not a teacher’s pet.”

 

“And… witches exist.”

 

“Witches exist,” Grandma confirmed, “although we call the young men wizards.”

 

“But… aren’t you possessed by the devil?” I asked in a quiet voice. “According to Father Bernard, witches are individuals who are possessed by the devil and do his bidding.”

 

“Goddamned Christians,” my grandma muttered. “No. Christian ideas of witchcraft are, if you’ll excuse my French, complete and utter bullshit.”

 

At the time, I had been scandalized. “No cussing!” I squealed.

 

She sighed and pulled a long stick out of her jeans pocket. “This is a wand. It has a magical core, and –”

 

“Am I going to get one?” I interrupted.

 

Grandma scowled at me. “Yes. You are going to get a wand. Now, be quiet so I can explain the house system to you. There are four houses that choose you depending on your personality: Thunderbird – that was my house, you know – chooses the adventurers; Horned Serpent – your mother’s house – takes the intelligent and cunning; Wampus draws the warriors; and Pukwudgie – your father’s house – gets the humble and hardworking. Sometimes a house chooses more than one person, and that person gets to choose which house he or she wishes to be in out of the ones that selected them.”

 

“What if they don’t fit in any of them?” I asked nervously. I’ve never really been good at fitting. Anywhere.

 

“You will,” Grandma assured me, knowing what I was thinking. “Your dad had the same worries, and he was a marvelous Pukwudgie. You’ll do fine, darling. The house system is never wrong.”

 


	2. New Diagon Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of character introduction. Not a lot has been said about where Ilvermorny students get their equipment, so I made up New Diagon Alley, because you know Americans like to take British things and put "new" in front of them as a way to avoid copyright infringement. Also, the anxiety here is based on my own. Yes, I am that brash and awkward with people I've just met - either I'm silent or I'm the loudest little shit there.

The morning of my departure to shop for clothes and such in New Diagon Alley, I was a mess. I kept looking at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out if I should cover my hair or leave it down, and my outfit changed almost every time I looked at myself, which was a lot. You know, people say not to let what others think of you bother you, but honestly, you try walking into town wearing robes that belong in 200 B. C. E. and think about other people’s sneers and not let it get to you. It’s hard. In fact, it’s almost impossible, except that apparently Mom does it all the time.

 

Anyway, there I was, trying to decide whether I should try to apply some of my mom’s concealer on my burgeoning zits, when Grandma knocked on the door. “Sweetie? It’s time to go!”

 

I took one last look at my clothes and bit my lip. “Honey?” she asked, sliding into my room. She sighed as she saw what I was doing. “Oh, honey. Don’t worry. You know that old saying, _Have no friends not equal to yourself_? Well, think about it this way: those kids who are going to judge you because of clothes or race? They’re not equal to yourself because they can’t see past their own white noses.”

 

I got up, feeling still-nervous, and walked out of my room, head slightly ducked, because even though she was right, it’s hard to still the constant nagging of _what-if_ s in my brain.

 

At least it couldn’t be any worse than P.E. class.

 

**xXx**

New Diagon Alley was huge. It was located through the back entrance of this rickety old inn, a weird little place with a weirder name, The Blue Kneazle. There were colorful shops lining the long, narrow street. I caught a glance of Shikrom Shibaba’s Shelves and The Enchantment Emporium before Mom could grab my arm and pull me toward a dull little place simply called Koskinen’s Wands.

 

Inside, the shop was bubbling with business. Harried-looking employees ran around, repairing things, grabbing shoeboxes, and trying to clean up messes left by former customers. Mom brought me right up to the desk, where an old woman with white-blonde hair beamed down at me with a smile like my grandmother.

 

“Hello, hello, little one! I am Madame Koskinen,” she cried in a thick Scandinavian accent. “How is this little one, Rachel? He is good? I certainly hope he is good! Now, you want a wand, ja?” The old woman rummaged through stacks of boxes before picking one. “Aha! This one we’ll try out first, ja?”

 

The first seven wands were a disaster. I swished. They went haywire. The employees were smart enough to hide after the fourth, but not stubborn Madame Koskinen. Even Mom hid on that seventh one.

 

“Maybe we ought to try Mr. Shibaba,” she said, inching toward the door. “Come along, James.”

 

“Jay!” I called furiously. “And I want to try one more. Please?”

 

Madame Koskinen grabbed an elegant-looking box and shook it next to her ear, and, a gigantic smile on her wrinkled face, she held the wand out to me. “This one I have had for many, many years. Made of elm with unicorn hair, it is a very picky one. But I have a feeling about you. Go on. Try it.”

 

“Is that safe?” Mom asked nervously.

 

Madame Koskinen laughed. “Safe? Is any wand safe?”

 

I gave it a cautious swish, expecting to blow an unsuspecting pot to smithereens, but by some stroke of fortune, I was still alive. The wand emitted a string of blue and red sparks. It felt… I can’t describe it, but it felt _right_ somehow. It was like all those other wands had been made out of rough driftwood, gnarled out of shape, and this one was molded specifically to me from fine mahogany.

 

Mom blinked in shock. Madame Koskinen clapped her hands and grinned. “Well, I think we have a winner, ja? Two Galleons and three Knuts.”

 

My mom nodded, trace-like, set the money on the counter, grabbed my arm, and began robotically walking towards the door. I waved goodbye to Madame Koskinen and left with her, grinning.

 

Mom turned and began stuttering, an incredulous look on her face. Finally, she managed civilized words. “How…? That wand is very picky and well-known to like purebloods best, do you know that? The fact that it chose you is not good – not good at all. That thing could curse your fingers off instead of transfiguring water into rum!”

 

“Mom,” I pointed out, “couldn’t yours?”

 

She blinked owlishly. “What?”

 

“Madame Koskinen said something about yours being a temperamental wand somewhere around the sixth or seventh wand I tried,” I reminded her. “And she did say that all wands are dangerous. Your work is dangerous.”

 

“My work isn’t being done by my child!” she cried, crossing her arms.

 

“What if it is? When I get older?” I challenged.

 

For once, she seemed at a loss for words. “Well… oh, all right! But I still don’t like that blasted wand.”

 

**xXx**

 

The rest of the trip was virtually uneventful. I got my schoolbooks and my uniform, and Mom let me get a cat from Pillager’s Pets. She was an orange tabby with a white stomach, and I named her Sayre, after the woman who created Ilvermorny.

 

We did, however, run into one of Mom’s colleagues, who was… none too friendly with us. He was a tall man, with pale, vampire-like skin and dark hair combed so you could see his widow’s peak, like an arrow pointing “This way to the evil!!!”. He wore dark robes, and the smile on his face was cruel.

 

“Baker! It’s good that I’ve run into you! Shibaba wanted to talk to you about something,” he said in a voice cold and measured. “I take it this is your son, Baker? A gangly little thing, isn’t he?”

 

At that, I glared. I glared so hard, I think he flinched. Mom noticed. “Smirnov, this is my child, Jay. Jay, this is Dmitri Smirnov.”

 

“Smirkov?” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Gah!” he snarled. “Insolent child. Better be running along, Baker and Baker Junior. Wouldn’t want the boss to be angry with you because you dallied.”

 

Mom gave Smirkov one last glare and a nod of acknowledgement before brushing past him. She dragged me over to a fireplace and told me to Floo home, something I managed after the third try. Then she walked past, off toward Shikrom Shibaba’s Shelves.

 

**xXx**

 

August arrived swiftly, as I knew it would, and the journey to Lebanon, Kansas to board the train that would take all accepted students to Ilvermorny was a long one. For one thing, we were going _away_ from Massachusetts – which is where Greylock Mountain is – which is where Ilvermorny is – and for another, Kansas isn’t exactly close to Illinois. But Grandma told me to grin and bear it. So, I did. (Well, more like grimace and bear it, but same difference.)

 

When we arrived at the station, Mom took my arm and pulled me over towards the grey block between platforms 10 and 11. “Platform 10¼, coming right up!” she said cheerfully. “Now, what you do is walk right through. Come on.” She walked toward the cement block, and I watched, waiting to laugh at her when she smacked into it and fell down.

 

But she never did.

 

She just kept going, and I watched, amazed, as she passed right through the stone. I began dragging my bags behind me. “Okay, I’m officially crazy. Nutso,” I muttered to myself. “Totally insane.”

 

But I kept walking, and sure enough, I passed right through the wall and onto another platform, which read, sure enough, Platform 10¼. Mom grabbed my arm again, and we were off. I passed kids with owls, toads, cats (like Sayre), and even the assorted Crup. I pulled on Mom’s sleeve. “They let kids bring their Crups to school?” I asked, incredulous.

 

She nodded affirmatively. “As long as they assure that it won’t maul anyone, it’s allowed.”

 

“Cool,” I whispered. For some reason, I felt like most of the kids were staring at me. A few smiled and waved, but far more sneered and laughed. I felt my face burn bright red and heard the ugly laughter that only seemed to be fueled by my embarrassment. (It might’ve just been my imagination, but I _knew_ that at least one kid had pointed at me, fueling my brain into overdrive.)

 

After I had said my goodbyes to my mother, I climbed aboard the train and headed into an empty compartment. Not long after, a kid with bright red hair dyed with green – _A Christmas fanatic?_ I wondered – skidded into my compartment, pulling the door shut. “Hey,” he grinned, and he looked like a madman. “Can I sit here? Thanks. I was running from Peterson and his goons. How he got to be a Teacher’s Assistant, I’ll never know. Then again, his father _is_ Daddy Big-Bucks.”

 

“So, wizards have bullying problems?” I groaned, remembering the past years of taunting. “Great. Just great.”

 

“Ouch. No-maj bullies?” he winced. “They suck. Real physical dudes, I hear.”

 

“Really physical,” I corrected. “I take it you’re southern, judging from the accent?”

 

He puffed out his chest. “Sure am. My family immigrated from Ireland in the 20s. I’m a pureblood. What about you?”

 

“I’m a… um, I don’t know,” I admitted. “My mom’s a muggleborn and my dad’s a half-blood. Say, what’s up with your hair? Are you some sort of Christmas fanatic or something?”

 

“What?” He touched his hair, pulled into a long braid. “Nah. I just wanted to tick off my sister. Ergo, the hair. She hates green. Hey, my tutor just taught me about nationalities. I’m Irish and Swedish. What about you?”

 

_Talk about changing the subject_ , I thought to myself. “I’m third-generation Tanzanian and second-generation Indian. Like, from India. My dad’s grandparents immigrated from Tanzania and my mom immigrated from India when she was eighteen on a student visa.”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his hands in the universal “stop” signal. “Hold up. Isn’t Tanzania the Devil’s place or something? The Tanzanian Devil?”

 

I chuckled and tossed a little pillow that had been lying on the seat at his face, which he caught with ease. “No. That’s Tasmania, an island south of Australia. The Tasmanian Devil is a deadly canine that lives there. And a cartoon character. Tanzania is in Africa.”

 

“Whoops! My bad. I’m not very good at similar names. Speaking of, my name’s Noah. Noah O’Brian.” He gave a mischievous grin and pulled something out of his pocket. I gasped when I realized what it was. He tossed it to me. “And you should keep better watch over your wand.”

 

I huffed, a little insulted and more impressed, and put my wand in my bag. “My name is Jay Baker.”

 

“That your real name?”

 

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out.”

 

“I’ll figure it out.”

 

“I doubt it.”

 

“I’m just curious. I won’t use it,” he pressed.

 

“Promise?”

 

“Cross my heart.”

 

“Swear on the River Styx?”

 

“Not on your life! You read that too?”

 

I bit my lip to keep from smiling deviously. Diversion tactic is a go! “Well, yeah! Come on, we all know Solangelo is OTP.”

 

“Nah. I actually like Valdangelo better.”

 

I gasped, feigning anger. “How dare you say such a thing?”

 

Noah laughed, and I noticed the wheels in his head turning. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

 

I groaned. “I thought you’d forgotten about that.”

 

He grinned. “What’s your real name?”

 

“Let’s get this over with,” I sighed. “And you’re not going to use it.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“And you’re going to call me Jay?”

 

“Scout’s Honor!”

 

“Were you ever _actually_ a Boy Scout?”

 

“Don’t change the subject.”

 

“Knew it.” I let out a long breath. “My real name is James Baker, and if you call me that I will smash you through that window and out of this train by your hair.”

 

Noah held up his hands in the universal “I surrender” gesture. “No problem, man.”

 

“I’m genderqueer,” I informed him. “I use they/them.”

 

“Cool.” He gave a thumbs-up. “My sister’s a lesbian.”

 

“You shouldn’t out people without their permission,” I informed him.

 

“Sorry.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Force of habit. Doubt you’re really going to do something stupid, though.”

 

“True,” I acknowledged.

 

The conversation lapsed into silence. I looked down at my hands, my mind running wild.

 

A girl, already in her uniform (sans robes), opened the door to our carriage. I carefully assessed her. Plump, innocent-looking, blonde, colorful necklaces. Her generally kind disposition radiated from her every pore, so I smiled weakly and averted my eyes from hers.

 

Blondie surveyed the situation; me, wringing my hands across from a smiling kid. She scowled. “Noah, play nice.”

 

“I am! I’m the nicest guy ever!” he whined.

 

She gave a small chuckle and shook her head in disbelief. She walked over to me and whispered in my ear. “Are you okay?”

 

I smiled and nodded a little.

 

She sat primly next to Noah, legs crossed. “I’m Noah’s twin, Karrie. Is this your first year, too?”

 

I nodded. “What house do you think you’ll get?”

 

“Horned Serpent, for sure,” she said confidently. “I love learning about new things – not that that necessarily means I’m excited about school, though. And Noah’ll get Thunderbird – throw all caution to the wind for an adventure. How about you?”

 

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My mom was a Horned Serpent, my dad was a Pukwudgie, and my grandma was a Thunderbird. I don’t really think I fit anywhere.”

 

“You fit somewhere – I know it. Everyone does. And your house doesn’t really dictate anything but when you have your classes, who you have them with, and where you sleep,” Karrie assured me. “You’re going to be fine.”

 

“Yeah,” I replied shakily, looking out the window. I’d be fine. _Not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, mini-Smirnov is not going to be a Malfoy stand-in. I'm not THAT unoriginal. Also, the feeling of people laughing at them is (a) anxiety and (b) representative of the fact that J.K. has stated that while Americans care little about blood status, they tend to be a lot more racist (which I can actually see being true, considering the state of our "great" country).

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is kind of short, but I assure you, the next one is a lot longer.


End file.
